Assassin's Creed: Malfunction
by wandr
Summary: Sometimes an assassin's talent and intentions aren't enough. What if, one day, luck just wasn't on your side?


**Disclaimer**: Assassin's Creed belongs to Ubisoft. There, it's official.

**A/N:** _This story is nothing like I'd planned it. It wasn't progressing as well as I hoped, so I erased to whole thing, started over and was much happier with it. I had fun writing it, so I hope you have fun reading it. Please review, share tips, suggestions, and constructive opinions. I don't bite, I swear. _

_It refers to the assassination depicted in "_A journey's End_", although it easily reads as a stand alone. It was a prompt, which I included at the end. Enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Malfunction<strong>

"Amael. Today, you make work of your ears, not your blade." The master instructed sternly.

A fleeting look of disappointment crossed the apprentice's face, quickly replace by the usual, obedient demeanour the master had come to expect. Still, he'd caught the young man's displeasure, and softened his tone for a moment. He had a soft spot for the young man, whose skills were very promising, though some needed to be honed and the apprenticeship was far from over. Amael had been like a son to him and his best pupil by far. Probably his last, too, as he was getting on in years.

"You've greatly improved over the years, and you've shown great talent with a blade. But it does not suffice to know the many ways to end a life quietly, and efficiently." The master frowned slightly, intent on impressing this lesson on his charge. "What you do is crucial. But it is also important to understand why and how you must do it, and not just rush blindly into a kill. And there are other times when your blade is a last resort. It must always be ready, but not always be used."

The master paused, his eyes locked on the tiny house's small window. "You must learn to listen. To enlighten yourself to the world around you, and that, without the world around you becoming aware of your presence. You can learn much, that way. There is safety in knowledge." Turning back to the younger man, he continued, his voice stern again. "You are a shadow at night, Amael, but you must learn to be one in the sun as well. To look as though you belong there, so that no one will even notice you. _That_ is what you will do today."

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><p>The apprentice made his way through the bustling streets, watching people around him, trying to emulate them as much as he could. They had many styles to choose from. That portly man, there, walked as though his hips were fused, seeming to heave forward the whole of his massive body with each step. Now, that wouldn't do. And the women, there. Young, pretty things whose swaying hips and muffled giggles drew an appreciative smile. But, well… No, obviously not. They stood out, and he was looking for the opposite, those the eyes were not attracted to. There was an air about the place, some sort of casualness, almost lazy. Amael was not yet in the market per se, and the people here didn't barter with the same intensity; it was almost half hearted. That was a start, was it not?<p>

Slowly, yet deliberately, he made his way further down the street, taking care to let his eyes linger on a stall here and there, although seldom coming close enough to commit to some actual bartering. Taking care to always be aware of what was going on around him, he started listening in onto the mass' conversations. At first, the many exchanges were but a blur.

"See how this compliments your eyes…"

"Are you sure that fish is fresh…?"

"It happened right over there, I tell you!"

"Do you think I can get him to…?"

Amael realized he'd frozen in the middle of examining some shirts, too intent on the listening in part, and not careful enough about the blending in part. He noticed the vendor throwing him a wary glance and promptly put back the fabric with an apologetic smile and a shrug. Berating himself, he made his way nonchalantly towards the next stall, his pace mirroring that of those around him.

"Should I go for the blue one, or the…" That from a group of ladies behind him. Pretty voice, high and clear. He was almost tempted to turn and see for himself.

"I saw a man, he was so still, at first I wasn't even certain..." A man, not too far to the front and right of him, gesticulating animatedly.

"I'll give you only half as much for that, it's not…" Negotiations, of little interest to anyone but those concerned, and Amael dismissed it immediately.

He was more careful now of minding his actions as well as the conversations around him. He picked up a knife for sale, absent-mindedly noting the lack of balance and the crude workmanship.

"…and then he jumped, and he raised his hand…" That same man again, he could see him from the corner of his eye. He and his friend had stopped moving, the storyteller mimicking the gesture as he spoke, his tone awed. Amael's interest was piqued. He angled himself for a better view, smoothly letting the young ladies pass him.

"…hoping he'll propose by the next…" More giggles.

He concentrated on the two men, letting other conversations fade into the background.

"…hit him in the neck, it was over in a second!" The man brought the palm of his open hand down in his other hand, clearly imitating the gesture he'd spied. Amael gasped softly, working on keeping his features neutral as he recognized the unmistakable move. He'd seen it done, and performed it himself, too many times not to know it instantly.

The men started moving again, and Amael put the knife he was pretending to examine back on the table before inching his way closer and closer to the captivating storyteller. He had to hear more of this. He had to know for sure. If one of them had been seen…

He hadn't heard of any of the master's brother having gotten in trouble recently. Perhaps it was an old recollection, but the apprentice wasn't yet ready to dismiss it as that.

"What did you do then?" The friend was engrossed into the story, eager to hear more, as was the would-be assassin. The storyteller rolled his eyes.

"Nothing! What was I to do? That man meant business, my friend. He'd obviously been waiting for the old merchant. I never thought one could be so still. I hardly dared blink or breathe for fear he'd hear the air move. I just waited. I think I might have heard him say something, but I couldn't make it out, and anyway, I was busy trying not to piss myself. I think it took forever for him to leave, but it may have been just a few minutes, too. Anyway, I did not move from that roof until almost sunup. Just in case he was still around, you know."

His friend nodded empathically at that. "Your wife must have been worried sick when you didn't come home."

"No", the storyteller countered with a chuckle, seemingly less agitated now that that part of the story was over. "She's the one who threw me out last night. She's still angry about… you know. Me having _fun_."

The friend laughed knowingly, likely having been in on the evening of entertainment. The pair ducked into an alley. People flowed there too, but they were fewer, and the apprentice had to stay a bit further behind so as to not be too conspicuous.

_Last night_, he'd said. He had not heard anything about a mission, last night, although that would only be normal. They certainly did not advertize missions, not even amongst themselves. He would ask the master later. The friend's voice caught his ears, fainter than before, but still clear.

"So. Did you tell someone about this? Surely the authorities would be interested in your story."

The storyteller shook his head, hesitant. "I, aw… I'm not sure about that, Mico. I mean, I was pretty drunk last night."

"Yeah, maybe you imagined the whole thing," Mico interrupted him. Suddenly suspecting he might be made fun of, he turned to face his talkative friend. "Hey! Did it even happen? Are you making this up?"

The storyteller threw up his hands. "Why would I invent all this? You know me, Mico, we go way back. I don't have that kind of an imagination". It was Mico's turn to shake his head, although the move had felt too familiar to Amael for him to suspect a fabrication. The men had stopped, and the apprentice casually strolled passed them to a nearby bench and sat down, elbows on his knees and hands joined, his posture conveying the image of a man deep in his reflections.

"Tell me, then, why didn't you report this," Mico asked in a conspiratorial tone, which Amael had to strain to hear. "I heard they were at a loss to explain what had happened to the old man last night. Maybe you'd be a hero if you solved the mystery."

"I don't know," hesitated the storyteller, obviously interested in the hero bit. "I didn't see his face or anything. And I got the feeling he was tall, but he was crouched the whole time. Like I said, at first, I thought he was a statue. But stone robes don't billow in the wind. Who'd dress a statue, uh?" They snickered.

"Still," he continued, "there was no one else. And it almost seemed unnatural. What if they decide that I did it, and that I'm just covering up?" The two men looked at each other, one's brow furrowed, the other smirking.

"Find your brother-in-law" suggested Mico. "He knows what you're like. He'll have no doubt you could never have done this. I'm sure he'll vouch for your incompetence."

The storyteller punched his friend in the shoulder in mock anger. The words stung a little, but they were true, he was honest enough to recognize it. He nodded. "Very well, I shall go right this moment, and settle this. I'll see you for a round tonight, then, and will let you know how it turned out."

With a few more words of parting, the two grabbed each other's forearm in goodbyes and went their separate ways, Mico going back to the market and the storyteller, down the alley.

Picking his cue, the apprentice pretended to fuss at his boot for a moment, to let the man build some distance, then got up and casually started walking again, his thoughts in turmoil. He was pretty certain the death they'd spoken of had come at the hands of an assassin. The chances of it being otherwise seemed slim to him, although he had no real way of verifying it. He could ask his master and get confirmation, if the master even could confirm, but by then this information would be of little use. The storyteller will have babbled already, and at most they'll be able to warn the assassin. Better to silence the man now, before damage could be done to the order.

Part of Amael was uncertain how his master would react to him taking the initiative in this matter. It seemed highly improper not to follow protocol, yet not doing anything might yield more harm than good. He'd never had to assassinate a target unsupervised, and never in daylight, but he'd still been on his own for the critical part of his missions. And he was acting only in the best interest of his master's brother.

If nothing else, it will show the master he is getting better at eavesdropping, and showing good judgement in using all possible tools.

His mind made up, he watched his target turn a corner and, verifying that no one was minding him, pulled his hood up, swiftly jumped on an overturned basket before latching on the roof's edge. His grip solid, he heaved himself effortlessly onto it, and then followed in a slight crouch, careful to keep his step light and his head down.

The storyteller conveniently turned left at the next intersection, making his way down a little used alley. Carefully, Amael jumped across the alley to keep up with his target, nearly dislodging a tile upon landing. Taking a moment to steady himself, he resumed his stealthy pursuit. Ahead of the storyteller, a couple of burly men were arguing, both intent on their conversation and blissfully ignoring all around. He waited until they'd passed, and edged closer to the alley, feeling adrenaline surge in his veins. Anticipation was carrying him. The day was turning out really interesting, after all. He'd been worried the biggest threat to him today would be boredom.

He followed the target to another alley, this one deserted. Ahead, though, he knew the streets would get busier and busier. He'd have to act fast, now, if he wanted to have a chance at him. Closing in on the man, he positioned himself perfectly for the kill. He would use his hidden blade. It was poetic justice that he'd kill the storyteller exactly how he'd described the scene to his friend.

His mouth stretched into a thin line of concentration. His gaze was focused on his target entirely. He judged the distance just right, and there was no one to be seen besides them. The moment was upon him, and Amael jumped off the roof with a small grunt. His angle was perfect. He would come down on the man back, crushing him as he pierced the side of his neck. As he reached the peak of him jump, the apprentice drew his right arm back, bent at the elbow, opening and bending back his hand so as to free the way for the blade, his movement automatically pulling on the trigger mechanism.

But something was wrong. In this position, his wrist was right next to his ear. He should have heard the soft, satisfying click the blade made as it came out of its hiding spot. He'd always liked that sound. He found it reassuring. It was what he was best at. It was safety. But now it stubbornly refused to happen.

Too late. He couldn't stop the momentum if he grew wings, and gravity had him already upon the target. He'd have to improvise. Landing on the storyteller's back, he brought his unarmed hand, palm down, on the man's neck. It wouldn't kill him, but hopefully it would incapacitate him enough to allow the apprentice to pull out his dagger. Not as clean, but he couldn't afford to be choosy, right now.

The target went down with a gurgle, but not before instinctively throwing his elbow up at the weight crushing him. His wild move managed to connect with Amael's sternum, hard enough to send the apprentice flying backward. He hadn't expected resistance. It wouldn't have happened had his move been lethal as it was supposed to. In a flash, he mentally noted to account for such reaction in the future, adding a few curses for his malfunctioning blade for good measure.

In a single move, he was back up and had taken his dagger out of its sheath, and had soundlessly launched himself at his screaming target. The other man had his back to him, searching frantically for a weapon of his own to defend himself with, but the apprentice didn't give him the opportunity. Swiftly, he circled one arm around the target's belly and pulled him close even as his dagger buried itself in the unfortunate man's kidney. Just as quickly, the struggle was over, and the man went limp in his arms.

He was carefully laying him down when he heard shouting behind him. Attracted by the target screams, a group of soldiers had come to investigate. Rotten luck! Eyeing them warily, and aware now that his hidden blade would be of no help at all, Amael bolted suddenly down the alley, aiming for some wooden crates that would help propel him out of reach of the unanticipated opposition.

The soldiers yelled at him to stop, weapons drawn. They ran madly after him, agile enough to follow him to the rooftops, dashing the apprentice's hope of losing them there. Try as he might, he couldn't seem to distance his pursuers, though they weren't gaining much ground either. Perhaps he could just outrun them then.

The flight went on like this, in a stalemate, for a few minutes. Feints would only trick the first guard, and the others would take his place. They would follow turn for turn, jump for jump. He himself was starting to tire from the unrelenting race. To his right, he spied what could be his way out. Two buildings separated by a generous gap. It was a stretch, larger than he'd ever attempted. It would have been less intimidating if it had been much lower than the houses he was on now, but he'd take what he could get. If he could make it across, they wouldn't follow. He'd be home free.

Not pausing for a second, he bifurcated and sped down to the very edge of the roof, pushing as hard as he could with his legs, willing himself across. Arms flailing, he saw passersby look up at he covered them with his shadow. The opposite side was coming up to him at a frightening speed, but gravity was playing against him, once again. There was no way he'd land on the roof, and he braced himself for a painful run-in with the wall. Despite the pain, his arms managed to hang on to the edge of the roof, before slipping and catching it again, hanging by his fingers.

He stilled, knowing his struggling right now would only make it harder to hold on. He could hear the soldiers yelling behind him, first disbelieving, then in triumph as they saw his predicament. His fingers were slipping.

Spying an opportunity, and not kidding themselves for a moment that they could make the jump, the soldiers chose a safer route down as the apprentice strove to find a hold for his feet. If Amael could just get a solid grip and hoist his weight over the edge, he'd…

"Argh!" Pain exploded between his shoulder blades, interrupting his frantic search, as something heavy collided with him. His thin grip on the rooftop gave out and he found himself falling off the two-story building and landing awkwardly on a stack of crates below, losing his footing. He saw stars as something hit him on the side of the head on his way down.

"Murderer!" One of the guards kicked him hard in the back as he was trying to get himself up. They were surrounding him, now, the four of them, laughing thickly, menacingly. They were superior in number, and the advantage gave them confidence. They wouldn't have a problem subduing him. Another man rammed his boot in his stomach, taking his breath away. His head was buzzing.

He could taste copper, and spit red on the ground. He felt heavy and clumsy, as if in a daze. His head still spinning, he was showered with kicks and punches, each attempt to get back to his feet sending the guards in a renewed frenzy, until he could no more muster the strength to lift himself. He was barely aware of the crowd cheering the soldiers on, oblivious to the insults and taunts thrown his way. They struck viciously with hands, feet and the pommels of their weapons, emboldened by the ever larger group of spectators massing itself around them.

For Amael, the pain of each hit had blurred into a constant, even agony. His attempts at shielding himself were feebler and feebler, to the point where they were useless. There was a loud, merciful crack, suddenly, and he went completely limp. The ringing in his ears covered every other sound, and only through his open eyes did he know the world around him. His vision blurred slowly, his blood flowing freely now, feeding the dry earth beneath him.

And the world went black.

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><p><strong>Prompt<strong> : What if after all the preparation for a kill, the assassin's hidden blade malfunctioned? The assassin has to die in the end.


End file.
